Jane Devin

They sprawled in couches and chairs at the farthest corner of the Uptown coffee shop, their dyed black hair cut at odd angles or spiked with colored gel. Non-confomists, sharing the same style of clothes, chains, and tattoos. Smoking Camels or Camel Lights that they held between their middle knuckles rather than their fingertips.

I felt a connection with all of them, probably because the shadow of my own rebellion is never far behind me, but when I heard them arguing Objectivist philosophy versus human nature and social equality, I couldn’t help but feel a pang of affection.

Their conversation was heated and passionate. They may have shared youth and the style of discontent, but their philosophies were distinctly their own, and ran the gamut from revisionist socialism to ultra-virtuous capitalism.

I was there once. Young, and searching for the perfect world order. I read Atlas Shrugged when I was fifteen — a novel that played a significant political and social role in my generation — and remember being amused when Objectivist author Ayn Rand said that she couldn’t think of a more appropriate symbol for a thinker than the burning tip of a cigarette. Rand apparently did not know the smokers that I did. My mother and her husband, who smoked reflexively, the teenagers who made idiotic sport of blowing smoke rings and yes, myself, distracted, having to brush ashes off the page or keyboard.

I suppose it’s the nature of metaphors to be expedient. Rand didn’t carry her thought through to include yellowed filters, heaping ashtrays, toxins, and littered streets. She gave all that unpleasantness up in favor of the burning tip. When I read that line, nearer the end of the book, it made me wonder about all the other things Rand might have given up to tell her story.

A Russian emigrant, Rand’s disgust and disdain for communism led to her becoming a wide-eyed and awed disciple of industry, with a particularly slavish devotion to the titans of American enterprise. Rand’s ideals were simplistic and austere, and her canvas reflected her values. The metal of industry, the green of money, the white marble of pedestals, the gray of smokestacks, the translucence of sweat, the bruise of passion, the black and white distance between the haves and the have-nots and the pure and the corrupt.

In Rand’s idealized world, “bad” would not be rewarded because the “good,” even if in the minority, would overcome and overpower all. True titans, given full control and value, would never be corrupt because (with the nature Rand imposes on them) they are so immaculate that purely dark motives never fuel their desires. Even when they are being punitive, these men are beacons of enlightenment.

Rand envisioned a safe and wholly rational world under the rule of such men, who would never purposely manipulate the economy to oppress a populace, or use their power to enslave a culture, or trade corrupt political favors for their own social gain. These men would not build slave ships, rape women, or lynch those in search of freedom. These titans would not bring children into the factories to work for a pittance: Being men of reason, they would not operate tyrannical or brutal sweat factories. They would not manufacture shoddy devices, rig elections, or advance prejudice through discriminatory hiring practices.

No, in Rand’s America, devoid of historical truths and lessons, true titans would disempower the “bad.” Corrupt enterprises, if they were built, would quickly go out of business for lack of interest or value. All the geniuses and their prodigies, and those who worshipped and faithfully served them, would rise to their rightful and sanctified places. No one else really need exist. If they did, they could only be ever-grateful and tireless laborers, street bums, or other lost souls.

I found it interesting that midway through her epic novel, Rand sends her handful of genius-heroes into sanctuary to “stop the engine of the world” after they have been treated poorly and victimized by a corrupt and irrational society. Atlas, representing the titans, was shrugging the weight of the world from his shoulders. And of course, the world suffers greatly when its strongest members disappear. The sanctuary though, a large valley in Colorado, becomes an industrialized and mutually worshipping paradise.

Two things about Rand’s sanctuary are particularly telling. First, the clear streams, tall pines, and majestic mountains of Colorado move Rand not at all - she writes excitedly about the environment only when nature is conquered by industrialization. Second, it seems Rand could not envision her heroes successfully reordering the chaos of a corrupt society while in the midst of it - she had to send them away.

Rand ends her novel with a plane ride - the heroes returning home - but never realizes the redemption or reclaiming of the world as a more rational place. There’s only a promise of society’s brighter and more rational future, which readers are supposed to trust because Rand has consistently clarified the brilliance of her heroes and showed us how, with logic, effort and desire, a trail could be blazed. Rand’s fictional sanctuary was a massive expanse of privately owned land, and the blazed trail was far removed from the chaos and constrictions of public domain. This detail seemed not to effect Rand’s vision of the larger, more encompassing future.

At fifteen, I was drawn to Rand’s ideals, but also skeptical. I was looking for answers, in search of mentors and guidance, and seeking pathways to adult success. The stark simplicity of Atlas Shrugged appealed to the part of me that craves logic and order. The penniless orphan that became hero John Galt catered to my hopefulness. Rand herself - an immigrant, a laborer, an avid learner, and then a successful writer - was an inspiration. I might not have read anything except one line of Rand’s work - when one of her characters states that he is never lonely when he is alone (from an early draft of The Fountainhead) - and felt an affinity for her thoughts.

I was relieved when Ms. Rand ushered a couple of artists and underlings into the Atlas world. Of course, they were incredible beings - titans of their craft or prodigal sons - but prior to their introduction, Rand left me wondering if such people would have any place in her industrial world.

Rand was a charismatic and inflexible promoter of capitalistic extremes. She chose her scenes carefully and seemed to have an answer, even if brusquely economical, for the most common questions. She hinted at the rough-edged and well-considered beneficence of her rulers, but didn’t elaborate how this would effect the common person, the broken person, or the larger social order. By focusing on the bright light of industrial genius and repelling mediocrity as its opposite, Rand evaded much that was human, elemental, and inevitable.

Still, at fifteen, excited and anxious to enter the adult world and make my own living, I was drawn to Rand’s heroes. I did not have the genius of a John Galt or Dagney Taggart, but I thought I might be a Jonathon - Dagney’s trusted assistant - or even a part of John Galt’s loyal crew. I rewired my solitary energy and went in search of connections - and heroes. Thirty years later, I know why Atlas Shrugged was so compelling, and also why Rand needed fiction to sustain her philosophical ideals.

Rand was a genius at complicating the simple credo of the American dream – which is the basis for her Objectivist philosophy – but she needed a simplicity that could only be offered by fiction in order to make any of it sound believable or possible. She had to push aside all of the political, social and human realities that defied her hardline approach, in order to create a black and white world where the virtuous and the villainous were clearly separate, and where virtue ultimately held all the power.

The bright young rebels at the coffee house will likely attempt conformity somewhere down the line. Their hair may go back to its genetic roots, their piercings and tattoos may be hidden, but each of them, I know, will carry the ideals of their favorite philosophies in their pockets. Each will approach adult life believing there is a safe harbor somewhere in their future, where abundant opportunities will exist for bright and eager people like them, who are differently minded, passionate, and idealistic.

I couldn’t imagine telling them otherwise, and I didn’t. Instead, I listened and found myself smiling on the inside. My generation is not theirs. Mine kept few promises and failed to live up to many ideals, but its days are now numbered. The world will belong to a new generation, hopefully one that’s full of youthful energy and new ideas, and one that won’t rely on fiction, no matter how compelling, when it’s their turn to build a better world.